When the Singing Stops

by Di Morrissey

  Sasha St Herve leaned over and clinked his glass gently against Madi’s. ‘Come and join me for lunch at your convenience. You can make up your mind after that.’

  Madi returned to the party and seeing Matthew in deep conversation with a well-dressed Guyanese man, headed towards him. Then catching the slight frown and negative look that crossed Matthew’s face, she realised he didn’t want to be interrupted. Business undoubtedly.

  Matthew was relieved Madi had caught his signal. His conversation with Ernesto St Kitt was disturbing him and he wished Stewart Johns would materialise. Across the room, the CEO had been aware for some time of the intense conversation taking place between his marketing director and the government official who was proving to be a valuable link between the intricate workings of the political powerbrokers and AusGeo’s task of saving the mine. St Kitt had emerged as an honest official who showed integrity and a sincere desire to see Guyana back on its feet.

  But Ernesto St Kitt was a troubled man. ‘My predecessors in the mines department were notorious for not keeping records, it appears,’ he told Matthew with a wry smile. ‘But one name keeps cropping up. That of a company called El Dorado. I thought you might like to know that a lot of missing funds from the Guyminco mine were apparently channelled through this company.’

  ‘What sort of funds, what sort of money are we talking about? The mine has very little cash flow. It’s been operating for some time by paying its bills with bauxite or holding them against future sales.’

  ‘It’s big money, and over a long period of time, starting during the Burnham regime. Looks quite systematic, really.’ Ernesto was very English in his use of the language, a legacy of his years at the London School of Economics. ‘Some of it relates to equipment purchases, spare parts, things like that. But the paperwork is very suspect, very inadequate by any commercial standard.’

  ‘Even by Guyanese standards?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘Even by Guyanese standards.’

  ‘What do you know about this El Dorado company?’

  ‘Nothing—yet.’

  ‘Working on it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Keep in touch, mate.’

  ‘Most assuredly.’

  They shook hands and as Matthew turned he bumped into Antonio Destra.

  ‘Hi there, buddy. Just introduced your sister to the boss of the Pessaro. Nothing like a common interest to move things along.’

  Matthew had met Destra once before, but only briefly, at one of the dinner parties soon after his arrival in Guyana when the AusGeo team was being introduced to a wide range of Georgetown identities. At the time Destra had indicated he had a few dealings with Guyminco and was well known to the now deposed Lennie Krupuk.

  ‘That was kind of you, Antonio. They will no doubt compare notes on the catering tonight.’

  ‘Right on, mate.’ Destra was adept at picking up national characteristics of speech. ‘This is really good news for Guyana that your company is sorting out Guyminco. Long overdue, I can tell you, but you probably don’t need telling. Maybe I can help in some way? I’ve been out of the country again or I would have made contact before this. How about lunch next week?’

  Matthew was cautious. ‘I’m a bit busy, Antonio. Got to go back upriver to the mine shortly. What did you want to talk about?’

  Destra finished fussing with a big cigar and lit it with a flourish of his gold cigarette lighter. ‘All things machinery-wise. I do a lot of work for the major mines. I’ve swung a deal or two with Guyminco in the past, but nothing big because they always seemed strapped for cash. But if you’re going to get that place airborne you’re going to need some new machinery and that’s my line.’ He puffed on the cigar then gave Matthew a sharp look. ‘And maybe we could exchange a little bit of mining gossip.’

  Matthew got the message. They exchanged business cards. ‘I’ll call you when I check my diary,’ said Matthew.

  Connor had claimed Madi for most of the evening and they were sharing one last drink when Matthew with Kevin beside him signalled it was time to bail out.

  Connor declined Matthew’s offer of a lift, as Madi excused herself to make a polite farewell round of several of the ladies, including the wife of the ambassador.

  As they waited with Connor for the valet to fetch their cars, Matthew whispered to Madi, ‘Get many offers from the over-sexed, over-here embassy staff?’

  ‘The information guy was very attentive for a while. He might come good,’ she said lightheartedly.

  ‘You never know your luck in a big city,’ returned Matthew. It was one of his pet expressions and Madi loved it.

  ‘Funny you should say that. I got offered a job tonight.’

  ‘Hey, everyone, Madi has been offered a job. Doing what, pray?’

  ‘The top dog of the Pessaro is interested in my marketing skills.’

  ‘Celebration called for,’ shouted Matthew exuberantly. ‘Everyone to the Palm Court for a nosh up. You can tell us all about it over dinner. You go with Connor and meet us there, okay?’

  Clear of the embassy grounds Matthew turned on the car’s tape player. ‘Time to get a cultural fix, cobber,’ he said to Kevin. John Williamson singing Cootamundra Wattle flowed from the speakers.

  When the song finished Kevin turned down the volume a little. ‘Pick up any quality goss, Matt?’

  ‘Matter of fact I did. Does the El Dorado company mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not unless it’s connected with Sir Walter Raleigh and his little dream of riches.’

  ‘No, but the symbolism may be spot on, Kev.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Fill you in tomorrow. I’ll brief Johns at the same time.’

  ‘How about you? Gossip-wise?’

  ‘The Americans are very, very interested in what we’re doing with Guyminco. I rather fancy they might have some parties who would like to get their hands on it after we’ve smartened it up. The commercial attache really worked on me tonight.’

  ‘I think we’re going to make the CEO’s day. Good news and bad news.’

  ‘Who goes first?’ chuckled Kevin.

  Matthew smiled. ‘We’ll let the CEO make the choice.’

  SEVEN

  The motor launch moored at the stelling on the outskirts of Georgetown was named El Presidente Good Time.

  Colonel Bede Olivera stood on the landing, hands behind his back, sucking on an unlit cigar, smiling in welcome as his party of guests tumbled from the car.

  Matt and Sharee, Kevin and Viti, Connor and Madi started unloading their bags.

  ‘Leave that for the boy,’ called the colonel. ‘Get to it, boy,’ he called to a wiry black teenager balanced on the stern of the launch. With a grin the youth leapt onto the wharf and headed for the pile of overnight bags.

  Matthew introduced Sharee and Viti to the colonel, who gave them an appraising glance, took the cigar from his mouth and shook their hands. ‘Glad to have you with us, girls. Been up to New Spirit before?’

  They shook their heads. ‘We’re looking forward to it,’ said Sharee with a big smile. ‘It was very kind of you to invite us along. Matthew has assured us you men aren’t going to spend all the time talking politics and mining.’

  ‘You betcha.’ The colonel looked pleased. ‘There’ll be plenty of fun, you can be sure of that. New Spirit is a special place. Unique in Guyana.’

  The colonel was fond of sweeping statements and big gestures. He had extended the invitations in a manner where refusal would have been an insult. And as he’d pointed out to his male guests, it would be a very useful networking exercise. Stewart Johns was on a quick trip to Canada for an international mining conference and when Matthew had raised the invitation at their last meeting, the CEO had encouraged them to go. ‘I hardly know the guy,’ Matthew had said. ‘Seems a bit strange. What do you suppose he’s after? It might be a social weekend but there’ll be a reason for it, for sure.’

  ‘There’s always a reason behind everything in this plac
e, no matter how innocent it looks. But we need favours too. So if some of this damned bureaucratic red tape can be smoothed out by a pleasant weekend upriver, go for it I say. Apparently the New Spirit development is very lavish. Senior government officials and well-heeled business people have purchased leases and built weekend retreats there on the Essequibo River.’

  ‘It’s not exactly rustic. And no one seems to have asked where the public servants got the money.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll find out,’ the CEO had grinned. ‘Have a good time, but keep your eyes and ears open. I want a report when I get back. And not just on the fishing and waterskiing.’

  Matthew and Kevin exchanged a quick grin watching the colonel escort Sharee and Viti on board El Presidente Good Time. He was living up to his reputation that ranged from ladies’ man to powerbroker. A former Guyanese officer in Forbes Burnham’s socialist army, he had changed sides and become a politician in the first democratic government. Then he had lost his seat and developed a penchant for outspoken criticism of his fellow politicians, including those in his own party. The final expulsion from favour came when he walked out on his plump African wife and seven children for a blonde stewardess. The colonel now spent part of the year in Guyana and part in New York where his wife preferred to live. He also made a living as a TV commentator and writer.

  Connor had first met the colonel in New York. ‘He’s a big lump of a man but don’t be taken in by his size,’ he confided to Matthew. ‘He’s very fast on his feet when it comes to spotting a deal, detecting shifts in the political wind, and knowing how and what power plays are being made. He writes quite well too.’

  Colonel Olivera, dressed in shorts that strained around his girth, expensive American Lacoste knit golf shirt, plastic sandals and Yankee baseball hat, bounced around the cruiser organising the storage of bags, chairs under the awning on the afterdeck, and the first round of drinks. Madi felt he was at pains to present himself as an affable cog in the machine with no regrets over losing his former position close to the hub of the system. There were flashes of ego tempered with bonhomie, and they all watched with amusement as he shouted orders to the teenage deckhand, the only crew, to release the mooring lines.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Connor as the lad untied the final mooring down aft.

  ‘Andy, boss. Andy Rodin.’ He gave a little salute and they all burst out laughing as he added, ‘Me is very handy.’

  ‘Handy Andy,’ they chorused in unison. ‘And Rodin to boot,’ chortled Connor, explaining to Viti who gave him a questioning look. ‘Rodin, the sculptor—famous for his hands.’

  Looking the part with his multicoloured crochet beanie perched atop his thicket of curly hair, calypso band T-shirt, faded shorts and bare feet, Andy clicked his fingers to show he was pleased with his new nickname.

  The laughter was drowned by a throaty gurgle of the motor which the colonel flamboyantly accelerated and they roared away from the stelling.

  They soon passed the suburbs and tatty little riverside townships that seemed to Madi very unhealthy and depressing.

  Handy straddled the bow crooning to himself, tapping a tune on the wood of the bowsprit, his feet dangling over the side.

  Madison sat on the deck behind him, her back against the wall of the cabin, hugging her knees and watching the unfolding vista of the broad river. She had left the main party on the deck aft so that she could experience her first look at the countryside without distraction. For the first time she felt she was seeing the real Guyana. Although it wasn’t the deep heart of the country that Gwen had described in her book, already she had a taste and smell and sense of it.

  The enormous width of the tannin-tinged river lapped the mysterious shadowy tangle of undergrowth that rose in a solid screen along the banks. She longed to explore beyond this tantalising green wall, visualising small villages and towns scattered along dirt tracks. And further inland, she imagined, were creeks and rivers that swept through near impenetrable jungle, hiding waterfalls and rapids and overlooked by mist-covered mountains.

  The thick tropical growth edged the water for long stretches, then they’d round a wide sweeping bend and come across a small cluster of boats, a crude stelling, a clearing where thatched roofs were visible. Near one such village, a young boy in a small wooden canoe rested on his paddle to watch the luxury vessel from Georgetown speed by. Madi waved and was delighted when the youngster lifted his paddle in acknowledgement.

  The colonel directed Kevin to open a cooler which was packed with ice and bottles filled with homemade rum punch. ‘Speciality of the house,’ he announced boisterously. Plastic cups of punch were passed around, the sweet juice mix barely disguising the powerful measure of rum. Madi came back to join them, holding onto the handrail as she edged cautiously along the gunwale. Connor helped her down and offered her a drink. ‘Well, I can think of tougher ways to spend a Saturday morning. What do you think of the scenery?’

  ‘It’s magic. Absolutely enchanting. Exciting, just as Gwen described it in the book I told you about. But my God it’s hot out there in the sun.’

  ‘Ha. Remember what Noel Coward used to sing, only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.’

  ‘Right on, buddy,’ shouted the colonel as he handed the wheel over to Sharee. ‘Follow the river, sweetie, you can’t go far wrong . . . just don’t run into the bank.’ He blasted the boat’s siren, attracting the attention of the deckhand on the bow. ‘Hey, Andy, Handy Andy. Get in here and keep an eye on the lady.’

  ‘Here’s to the good life,’ said Kevin and they raised their plastic cups in unison. ‘Bloody strong, isn’t it?’ he gasped after a long drink. ‘Reckon Guyana Airlines could fly planes on this stuff.’

  ‘I’m working on it,’ guffawed Olivera. ‘Yeah, it’s a good life Kevin, if you’re on the right side of the track.’ His expression changed and he became serious as he settled into a big deck chair boldly labelled El Capitan. ‘Some people in Guyana talk about the good old days and mean when the British ran things. Even today lots of older people would like to see those times back. They didn’t see it as colonial oppression, they simply believed the empire was good because it was British. God ordained it that way.’

  ‘One could say the same about the Brits’ influence over Australia a few decades ago,’ said Matthew.

  The colonel sipped his rum punch. ‘My heritage is Portuguese with a bit of Indian thrown in. We look down on Africans as descendants of slaves even though the Portuguese and Indians were brought in as indentured workers, which was just a small step above being slaves, believe me. The Portuguese quickly moved from the canefields to commerce. But even though they were European, they spoke differently and had different cultural affinities than the British so they weren’t classified as whites.’

  ‘There’s always a desire among immigrants to preserve their national identity and maintain their family and cultural roots,’ said Connor. ‘Unfortunately it can also be alienating.’

  ‘In order to succeed in British Guiana, we had to adopt English ways and language. Today the Amerindians are really the only ones who have held on to their traditional ways. And that is only due to their isolation.’

  ‘Is that changing now?’ asked Madi.

  ‘They’re being forced to move more into mainstream society. In some villages they have vehicles and buy western food. The government programs are well intentioned but they also help dismantle the Amerindian’s traditional lifestyle. However, the Amerindians are becoming more active in seeking a better share of the country’s wealth. In some quarters they are now regarded as troublemakers.’

  The Australians looked at each other. It was a familiar story.

  ‘Race is such a divisive matter,’ said Madi. ‘Why can’t the world just accept we are all one race—the human race.’

  Olivera rolled his eyes. ‘Ho, we have a dreamer in our midst.’ He smiled almost condescendingly at Madi. ‘Try telling that to the people in any country with a racially mixed population. Everyo
ne believes theirs to be the superior race.’

  Matthew decided to change the subject. ‘So how is the country adjusting to the new democratic regime?’

  ‘It’s hiccupping along, as you would expect in a Third World country waking up after a long sleep. The government is trying. But among my old friends in government the understanding of egalitarianism doesn’t quite mean we are all equal. And when it comes to free market thinking, opportunities are hard to resist sometimes, if you get my drift.’ He gave the side of his nose a nudge with a finger.

  ‘In other words corruption is rife, the rich get richer and the poor are getting the rough end of the pineapple,’ said Madi.

  ‘Nicely put, young lady. Could not have expressed it more succinctly myself. Rough end of the pineapple, eh? Is that a peculiarly Australian expression?’

  Madi was disarmed. ‘Yes, I think so . . . not widely used in polite conversation, though.’

  ‘Say, I’ll remember that. Figure I can use it some time.’

  ‘It seems to me the economy is still rocky, times are tough for the average family,’ said Kevin. ‘Why doesn’t the government make things easier for developers to increase the wealth of the place? You must admit the red tape is discouraging,’ he added candidly.

  Olivera was unfazed. ‘You don’t change an ingrained system overnight.

  ‘But it’s a rich place, really, mineral resource rich, that is.’

  ‘Sure, Kevin. You’re right. Guyana is rich in untapped resources and if we are truthful, the Amerindians hold the rights—historically if not legally—merely by being the indigenous population.’ Olivera gave a shrug. ‘Such comments are not popular with my esteemed colleagues.’

  ‘Or developers, or investors, I imagine. So whose side are you on?’ asked Madi.

  He laughed. ‘My dear girl, I was an idealist and I believed in socialism and the concept of the people’s rule. A lovely ideal. An unfortunate reality. Now I am on my side. I look out for me. It’s very fashionable in Guyana today.’